Why Seattle?

If one were to hang around this particular Starbucks too often, one could go broke giving money to people who have somehow lost their ride to Seattle and need money for the bus. It seems odd that it's always Seattle. Why would anyone want to go to Seattle to begin with? Not wet enough in Portland? Maybe it's just more believable than say San Francisco or LA.

In any case, I guess you have to draw the line somewhere, especially if you don't really have much more money than they do. I'm always perfectly willing to give a cigarette instead, which is always requested after the money is denied.

And speaking of Seattle . . . One time when I was up there I watched out the window of a third story book store while a guy across the street collected from the sidewalk outside the Starbucks part of a cup of coffee, part of a sandwich from the trash bin, and then half a cigarette from the gutter to top off his meal. Didn't ask a soul fer nuthin. Now that is self reliance, and inventiveness to boot! I figure a guy like that has to have moved up in the world since then.

One time a guy approached me, here at this same Starbucks, and said "Hey, man, I'm not gonna give you some bullshit story and waste your time--I'm just askin for money, no fuckin run around."

I gave him all that I had at the time, which was four dollars and some change. Honesty is a virtue beyond compare. With me it hits the jackpot every time.

My stepson has made friends with the Russian mafia. Well, with a Russian mafia kid anyway. How do I know this? Because every Russian in this neighborhood is in the Russian mafia. And also in the Seventh Day Adventist Church. My wife will be happy to learn this, because she looks up to people who have money. And big houses. And a Mercedes or a BMW. Or both.

In the meantime I somehow forgot to take my Copaxone for two days in a row. It's like I kept thinking about it and reminding myself and then straightaway forgetting. Maybe if they added tar and nicotine it would be easier to remember. Makes sense to me. I never forget my cigarettes.

The feeling in my feet--or, more accurately, the lack of feeling--is such that I cannot distinguish textures at all. When I first had my attack in Spring 2007 I could not feel anything, so at least this is an improvement. Nonetheless, it can still end up being inconvenient. Last night I was sort smoothing my foot over what I took to be my wife's foot and calf--you know, sort of massaging with my toes, walking them up the back of her calf, sneaking on up to the inner thigh--only to realize after quite some time that I was actually massaging the dog.

Not what I had in mind.

The dog, nonetheless, seemed to appreciate my mistake.